


Into Each Other

by olippe



Series: We're Going [1]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Drama, Drama & Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, I'm trying my best, M/M, Musicians, Romantic Friendship, Teenagers, Unnecessarily long, art is sad, give him cookies, i like making tags, just say you love each other already, please go ahead and read something else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: It's a long road that they'd gone through.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: We're Going [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	1. Where Paul Thinks The Garfunkels Are Psychopaths

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this site! Please be kind!
> 
> Trying to keep up with the actual chronology, but might slip on some facts/details. Needless to say, in spite of real-life references, this is a work of fiction.
> 
> I apologise for the mixed spellings, I can't shake it :c

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is _not_ impressed by anyone (else) at the talent show.

Paul thinks it’s cliché.

Huge blond curls—God, he’s _so_ blond—and blue eyes and a voice like that… God, someone’s taking stereotypes way too seriously. People like that, they can only be psychopaths.

“What’s that, dear?” His mother, on the front seat, looks back. Her smile small. “Did you say psychopaths?”

Paul shrugs.

“Well, that’s not a very good sort of thinking to have. I don’t want you to go around calling people psychopaths, alright? You don’t like the talent show, do you?”

Paul shrugs again. Talent shows are torture. They chuck a large amount of kids on stage, let them do what stupid things they think they could do, and force good-natured people to suffer through those idiotic skits. One or two would be alright; most people are only on the audience for these one or two and their kids—but the rest… the rest have special place in hell.

“Well, I think a couple of them are quite good,” his mother goes on. She now turns her head to her husband and places her fingers softly on his shoulder. “Like that blond kid who sang. He was good, wasn’t he?”

Paul stirs on his seat and turns his attention to his brother just so he wouldn’t add to the mother’s comment. He tries to catch what his father has to say. _No, Dad, he’s not “pretty” good._ Paul thinks he’s…

“I think he lives ‘round the block.”

Well, anyway. Nothing to get worked up about. It’s just a boy. Who looks like an angel and sounded like one.


	2. Where Paul Gets Extra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not Art's hair that makes him easy to find.

The only good thing about Monday is that new comic books are in for a pick-up that day. It’s a perfect timing, too: right after Sunday, so his parents can’t avoid giving him his weekly thanks-for-all-the-chores-you've-done allowance, _and_ after Sunday baseball practices so he'd have chances to impress his father enough to give him a little extra for a job-well-done.

Paul brings himself to his trusted candy store. He tries to remember the last episode of Captain Marvel—not hard, considering how many times he’d flipped through it; he wound up reciting the whole comic book on the way to the store. Why should a week have 7 days? That’s too long a time to wait. He pushes the door and makes a beeline to the comic book pile, plucks a copy of Captain Marvel and a Fun Dip, and makes his way to cashier. No one mans it.

“Out, out, out! That’s enough of that!”

Paul turns his head to find a large man in an apron shooing a kid off a candy rack. He frowns. That’s the unmistakable giant head of the boy from the talent show. The blond boy glances back quickly before running to the street, his face bitter.

The shopkeeper turns his attention to Paul and sighs. “Sorry ‘bout that. Here for your weekly Marvel, eh, Paul?”

“Yeah.” Paul hands him the dollar bill, still looking at the recently-closed glass door. “Why did you do that? What did he do?”

The shopkeeper makes a grumbling noise and shakes his head impatiently. “That kid. He comes here every week, and every time he shakes them bottles of Good & Plenty to find out which has most candies. I'm telling you, I can’t stand it anymore. I’m gonna put a poster of his face in front of the door and I’ll put big block red letters saying BANNED FOR LIFE, you hear?”

Paul shrugs. Doesn’t seem like unreasonable thing to get most of your candy dollar. But he gets it, so he just says, “Business as usual, then?”

The shopkeeper nods his head. “You’re a good kid, Paul.”

Paul snorts. “I think you confused me with the other Simon.”

“Ah, Eddie’s a good kid, too. Here.” He slips another packet of Fun Dip. “For Eddie.”

Paul grins and dashes out of the store, one Fun Dip richer. He knows there’s no way in hell is he ever going to give that cherry-flavoured powder to his baby brother, and the shopkeeper knows it, too.

Paul stops at his track. Should he run after that kid, bereft of Good & Plenty, and give him a consolation candy?

He shrugs and shoves the paper-wrapped sweets into his jacket pocket. Maybe he’ll give that one to Eddie, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can anyone get art his candy, please?


	3. Where Paul Eats Carrots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse at Paul's dinner table.

“Paul, dinner!”

Eddie bangs on his door, but softly, like a nice kid he is. Paul grumbles and rolls out of his bed. The record’s well over for good thirty minutes, at least. Paul had fallen asleep in the middle of Ink Spots. That's not unusual.

Paul strides quickly down the stairs to find the kitchen already busy with dinner prep. His mother is standing over a big bubbling pot, wearing a flowery apron that looks way too much like the tacky wallpaper Paul never likes. On her side, busy as a bee among the drawers and the shelves, is his younger brother, Eddie, in his silly white jacket with silly cartoon print, carefully balancing plates. Paul deliberately makes a loud noise to notify his approach. Eddie greets him with a brief glance, but his mother smiles sweetly.

“Help with the table, won’t you?” She’s cooking something that smells like carrot. Suppose carrots don’t have smell, but Paul knows she’s cooking carrots anyway. There’s something carrot-y about her movements. Paul tries not to dislike it.

“Eddie can do it himself,” he mumbles.

“Shut up, Paul.”

“Eddie! Paul,” his mother warns. Paul shrugs and begins to fold napkins. His mother is not very happy about the shrugging, but she's way too fond of her son to tell him not to do that. Anyway, Paul's a sweet boy. He does what's asked of him, a good brain in his head, too. He's definitely going to make a good man someday. A lawyer, maybe. A respectable one, with plenty of money.

Eddie hands his brother a fist of spoons and forks and knives. Paul places them on one side, concentrating on the task at hand. Eddie feels like telling him to hurry up, but he’s gotten more patient with Paul ever since the surprising Fun Dip occasion some years ago. Paul’s an anal; everyone knows that. Even for something as mundane as setting up a dinner table, the creases need to be as perfect as the Japanese pleats. Eddie sighs in a way that their mother does when one of them is being exceptionally tiresome, then moves on to fetch drinking glasses.

Their father comes in some minutes later, looking tired the way fathers always do. Paul hastens his folding. By this time, the suspicious carrot pot had ceased cooking and his mother is placing a huge bowl in the middle of the table to contain it. After the father settles on the chair, she begins to arrange food on each of her family member’s plate. Paul mourns the carrots. Eddie is fine with it because he knows tomorrow’s gonna be a fried artichoke day, and so he mourns tomorrow.

The family eats around small chatters. His mother asks Paul and Eddie about homework and school. Eddie asks Paul if he can borrow his bike, to which Paul told him another shut up. His mother warns him again and Paul shrugs. The carrot isn't that bad. It's just... carrot. Paul uses his spoon to cut the tenderised vegetable into small pieces and chuck them into his mouth with a spoonful of meat. What's for dessert, he asks.

“Paul.”

Paul swallows hard; a chunk of cut-up celery stick struggles in his throat. Paul downs his food with water. When his father speaks, Paul feels the need to sit up straight and salute, but he has more brain and restrain than that. So instead of looking stupid and nervous, he just looks nervous. “Dad.”

“Your finger-picking,” he shakes his head. That’s enough words. Paul feels his shoulders slumping and mutters an apology.

To salvage the situation, his mother smiles and says brightly, “Well, it’s good to know that you’ve been practicing. Isn’t that right?” She flashes a sugar-coated smile and glares at her husband, who nods slowly.

The table is once again silent.

His father coughs. “You’re getting better, though.” 

Paul smiles at his carrots.

***

His father would occasionally take the family to his performances. Although it usually runs late and he’d wind up falling asleep in the car on the way home and suffer from a stiff neck, Paul always likes it. Young bodies are useful; stiff necks don’t last long at his age, so he doesn’t mind. He’d sit there, Eddie on his side, sandwiched between him and their mother, gaping together with him.

His father’s band is magnificent—grand and sparkling. They play the most incredible songs, stun the most respectable audience. On special occasions, they’d turn to play something more festive: Latin music, all that. These are occasions Paul look for the most. The sound! The sound is so different. So vivacious, so rich!

Stepping outside, drunk with noise, his ears would stir on the farthest, faintest sound of people singing under the bridge in the distance. Young men in their late teens, harmonising to some a cappella tunes under the moon. Paul would stare, partially immobilised, until either his mother or Eddie takes his hand and leads him into the car. And even then, the sound the engines make would melt into music in his head. Paul would smirk. Eddie would freak out.

“Dad,” Paul calls from the back seat. His father glances from the mirror. “Do you think I can do that, too?”

The father shoots up half the eyebrows. “You still have a long way to go, Paul,” he says. And before Paul falls back deflated, he looks away towards the road and adds, “But you’re going somewhere.”

Paul smiles in the quiet darkness. He lets Eddie’s head fall on his shoulder and thinks. Somewhere has to start somewhere.


	4. Where Paul Looks Through the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul says the least comforting thing to a stranger.

So Paul swore off talent shows when he’s 8, so what? He needs an out of his small world, and a guy with massive stock of lady-fans seems to be a good start. Besides, it’s not _exactly_ a talent show like that talent show he despises so. It’s a graduation production. It’s… slightly different. Kinda.

Anyway, in school full of talentless imbeciles, auditions aren’t difficult to paddle through. He’s only a gender short from being the Alice, probably. What’s the second biggest role? White Rabbit, definitely. Oh, sure, there’s Mad Hatter and all... but White Rabbit, definitely.

The first meeting was short and boring. Paul scoffs at the girl playing Alice. She _would_ get that role. Long blonde hair, childish face, big blue eyes... obvious. But put the look and the dancing aside, she’s really not that impressive. Paul's heard her singing. She's not all that. She hits boring notes boringly. Sure, she's pretty. Unimportant. And trying too hard to get attention from the blond giant sitting on the far side of the class room. Seriously, what's with girls and that guy? God-given effortless charms, perhaps. From the corner of his eyes, Paul counts every single girl who steals a glance towards the boy. The only one who doesn't is the girl who plays a mushroom. Paul can try with that one, then. Anyway, this is not a plot to get girls.

Girls. They're looking coyly at him. Whispering from afar, wishing for him to come to them. Being firmly a boy, when the assembly’s concluded, Paul walks boldly towards the giant. He extends his hand, like his father does when he meets new people, in a very formal way. The boy blinks at Paul, unsure, only half smiling. Paul nods, for some reason, and says, “Paul Simon. I play the White Rabbit. Thought I should get to know the Alice.” His hand’s still waiting.

“Oh," he replies softly—a bit shyly, even, as if he's embarrassed for Paul for making this simple mistake. He clarifies, "I’m not Alice.”

“Oh. The tree, then.”

The boy raises his eyebrow, then breaks into laughter. He, finally, takes Paul’s hand and gives it a lingering shake. “That’s awful nice of you. No, no, I’m the, uh, Cheshire Cat.”

“I know, I was just joking.” Paul sighs and sits, having released himself off the nerve-breaking handshake. The boy looks at Paul with questioning eyes. Paul shrugs. “I know your name. I’ve been watching you.”

They fall silent.

Paul smirks. “That was not a joke.”

“Okay…”

“Nah, not that creepy either. I saw you on the talent show back when we were… in third grade or something? You were singing, uh… Nat King Cole, right? Yeah, I saw you then. Kinda hard to miss, your hair.”

The boy, unconsciously, places his hand over his head and smiles shyly. “Well, yeah.”

“Then I saw you again in the candy store, sometimes later.” Paul frowns now. “The shop-keep drove you away because you kept on rattling candy boxes. Man, you’re weird.”

He frowns in surprise and giggles. “Thanks, person-I've-never-met-before. I value your assessment.”

Paul laughs at the sarcasm. “You sang well.”

“Thanks, I’ve been…”

“I want you.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

Paul looks at him sharply, and nods. “To sing. With me. Not in this stupid production, I mean, but…”

An opened door interfered. The elderly janitor shoos them, as if they're a couple of cats sneaking for edible trash. Paul sighs and jumps off his seat, picking up his bag on the floor as he goes on. He cocks his head, gesturing for the other boy to follow his suit and “scamper”—as the janitor put it. Shook out of his daze, the boy submits to the instruction. They dash through the corridors and the school yard, in silence, until he can’t bear it anymore. He reaches out and tugs at Paul's bag, putting him to a halt. Paul looks back to find a tempted worried face, its lower lip bitten to soothe the owner's nerves and hesitations.

He shifts from side to side before finally relenting. “So… What was that again?”

Under the sun, the blondness of the boy is almost unbearable to see. He's like a giant street lamp. But Paul looks bravely at him and smiles wide enough to contain all glee there is in the world.

“Arthur Garfunkel, I will make you famous.”


	5. Where Art Thinks Paul Simon’s A Psychopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul gets what he wants.

A psychopath, definitely. Who stalks people and keeps quiet about it for years, then comes along to say stuff like that? A psychopath, that’s who. What’s this psychopath’s name? Simon… thingy…

Art dreads the rehearsals. What if he’s lured to an empty janitor's room and gets stabbed to death with a sushi knife? That sounds like something a psychopath would do, doesn’t it? Now, if Art can just find good enough footing to say no, thanks, I will not go to an empty room with you, he’ll make it out of the production alive. Or should he just give up the production? No way. Betty Page—Alice, that is—is definitely into him. He’s not gonna give _that_ up. Besides, how difficult is it to avoid sushi knife? Not very difficult at all. Art is not a dead fish.

The first rehearsal is a chaos, of course. But luckily, Simon the Psychopath doesn’t seem to be all that interested in Art that day. He has a couple of his buddies in the production, it seems. They talk loudly, laugh, play around. He seems pretty normal for a psychopath—funny, even. Art spends the day trying not to laugh over jokes that aren’t made for him, Betty thinks he has troubling stomach. He catches the name—that’s right, it's _Paul_ Simon. Art won’t forget it now. It might be the name of his murderer.

At the end of the rehearsal, Art walks Betty and a couple of her friends to the bus stop. Art prefers walking himself, but no one’s interested in walking that far, it seems. He doesn't mind bikes, but walking is fun. No one enjoys fun things anymore, Art thinks to himself, before realising how old he must've sounded like had he blurted that out loud. Besides, short walks like this is enough, with pretty Betty and her friends. Betty waves a shy goodbye before disappearing into the yellow vehicle, giggling. The bus leaves just before Betty managed to throw a last look through the window. Art sighs, both in small adoration and relief, before making his way home.

It's really not far away, his home. Sure, it takes a while, but weather is nice, most of the time. Even if it's not, it rarely bothers Art. It's not like he enjoys anything poetic in particular—not the whole green grass and smell of air after the rain or the sound of birds and the view of children playing; none of that. He just likes the freshness of being outside, moving forward. After all, he doesn't have that much to do. And not like he doesn't like his brothers, but a few more minutes without having to squabble with them is all a boy could ask for.

Art suddenly quickens his pace, ducking behind a hot dog cart. He swears he’s going to puke. That's Paul over there, crouching with a hobo, not thinking of possible crimes or hygiene-related worries that might ensue such reckless decision, in the corner of the street. Was he following Art? Is he unafraid because he has a sushi knife in that schoolbag of his? Art walks faster, considering possible alternative routes for tomorrow's trip home.

But he stops and quietly returns and peeks. Paul, from a short distance, seems to be completely absorbed by something entirely not-Art. Art follows his gaze and finds what Paul’s been staring at. And now that he’d seen it, it’s kinda hard to miss: a group of teenagers singing across the street. Art sighs and leans on the side of the convenient store, looking at the view. It’s not a very strange occurrence, street singers. After all, it’s a doo-wop era and nothing’s cooler than to charm ladies with serenades. Art himself had long learned that, far before his teen year began. His first childish peck-on-the-mouth was at 5 when a girl from synagogue heard him singing just outside whilst waiting for his father.

It occurs to Art that this is probably really it. What Paul wants, he means. Singing, like that. Maybe that’s all he wants from Art, after all: his voice, the possibility of making that sort of harmony.

Over the next few days, that’s what Art does: studying Paul. Unlike Paul, Art doesn’t really have that obsessive streak to settle on one man for months, so he simply catches glimpses and makes up from what he gets. What he finds aren't very special: Paul likes music, is learning to play guitar, likes baseball, has a brother... pretty staple. Art, in spite of their rocky (an adjective that's completely gone unacknowledged from Paul's side) introduction, finds himself quite entranced by the dark-haired boy. They have a lot in common, after all. And Paul’s hilarious. He tells the funniest of jokes; sometimes way too dark than anyone’s accustomed to. He has odd sense of humour for an 11-year-old, Paul.

Soon enough, Art begins to get more involved in the conversations. Paul calls him "Arthur", very formally. That's how he's introduced to Paul's friends. Art finds out that two of them—Marty and Mickey—sing with Paul, too, along with another boy who's too busy to join the school production. Paul shrugged when the topic of the small singing group was brought, and when it's just the two of them, he said that they're “nothing good, but a good trial.” So Art’s not very special, then. Paul wants to sing with other people, too. Art just happened to be included. Well, that does it.

Art eases more around Paul in his circle. Besides, Paul never mentions anything about singing together with Art anymore. They spend their breaks talking about games they managed to catch that week, stupid people in school, music, musicians that they like, new songs. Paul’s crazy about Elvis (quite obviously) and Gershwin—but not Ira, he said, “And what an unfortunate name.” Art took offense and told him that it’s his middle name. Paul just laughed and said, “What, your mother hates you or something?” He began to call Art by his middle name. Paul’s middle name is nothing funny, so there’s nothing Art could do.

The school performance went smoothly, too. After boring rehearsal upon boring rehearsal, they finally put their work on stage and received a storm of polite applause. When the performance ended, Art, after completely forgetting the reason he joined the production in the first place, finds Betty Page walking away arm-in-arm with the idiot Benjamin Jackson, who played Mad Hatter and can’t hit a note right if he had a Thor’s hammer. Art shrugs it off and goes on. Girls come and go, after all.

People like Paul, though. That psychopath’s one in a million.

Without trying to pack his things, Art tries to catch up to Paul before he’s off to his parents. He finds Paul stuffing his bag with thingamabobs and Art knows he’s only a few seconds away from sprinting; so quick to vanish, Paul, with his speed-of-light baseball legs. Art’s visibly sweating when he managed to squeeze through the relieved crowd. And Paul, noticing an approaching golden tree, has paused his movements. When Art reaches him, he raises an eyebrow slightly, as if to ask, “What?”

Still slightly panting, Art takes a couple of deep breaths. “Do you still want me?”

“Huh?” The confusion doesn’t sound genuine.

“Singing. Do you still want me to sing with you?”

There's a weird silence that follows Art's question. Paul’s face is unreadable. Is he waiting for Art to say something else? No, no. Art asked a question. He's supposed to be answered. He waits a bit more. Nothing comes out of Paul. He just stares at Art blankly. Is he dead? Art feels his forehead crunching, before finally releasing, “My parents call me Art.”

Paul beams at him. “Can I call you Artie?”

“What? No.”

“Bye, Artie.”

The reaction hits Art like a bully who wants his money. He feels the air abandoning his body. Unsure what to do, Art stays still, frozen. It’s as if he’d missed something—something big—like opportunity, like…

“We’ll start practicing in a couple of weeks,” Paul’s voice calls. Art turns around and catches a glimpse of Paul giving him a small salute and smiles to himself before letting it fade.

Seems like the psychopath’s won.


	6. Where Art Steps into the Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art gets closer.

In spite of growing friendliness, Art’s never ceased to be at least mildly alarmed by Paul. A big bowl of impulse, that boy. And an alarmingly studious observer; he somehow figured out Art's secret love for graphs, for one. It's not a big secret or anything, Art simply doesn't tell people because it's a little weird. Paul, however, waved the insecurity in his absent manner. So he likes graphs, so what? Those things can be fascinating. For weird people. Anyway, he said, if you put aside social convention, it's not difficult to appreciate a man as his own self. Being told that (even though he's not entirely sure what all of the words mean), Art found himself without surety whether to thank Paul or to tell him that that's not how people speak, but, as usual, he chose to keep quiet about it. Acceptance matters little when it comes from another complete weirdo, but it matters anyway. So Art decided to be more welcoming.

They sit together in cafeteria nowadays, along with Paul's friends, mostly. They just started a new school year, and Paul's friends are pretty normal. Art is pretty much normal, too, as far as public appearance goes. He relies on sports, Paul can tell. When you're weird, playing balls reduces your weirdness. Paul's pretty much using the same method. In fact, he said, it began with the first generation of immigrants; they began to fit in through ballgames and music. Art's not sure whether that's true, but it could be. He can't think of any non-weird uncle who's not into baseball.

Both Art and Paul had brought packed lunch, but the rest of their friends are with red trays and fried delicacies. Occasionally, Paul steals a fry or two, giving him a smack on the head from his victim. He doesn't mind; some things are worth a fry. Paul doesn’t stop talking with his mouth full of sandwich. Art sneaks a thought that he’d enjoy seeing the boy choke on peanut butter just so he can say “I told you so”, but decided to quietly unpack his own lunch without commenting.

“Oy, Garfunkel. How Jewish can you get?”

Art looks at his pastrami sandwich and tries to look nonchalant. Which he probably is. “I’ll invite you to kugel dinner, but I bet that’s what you had last night.”

“Yeah, but I’m so Jewish, I’ll never pass on free dinners,” He looks at half-eaten triangular bread stacks on his hand and shrugs. “America’s a bad excuse of a culture anyway,” he said, before finishing his lunch.

Art snorts. “’Bad excuse of a culture’? Where did you get those words from?”

Paul looks at Art as if he’d just grown third nose. “Books.”

“Yeah, but,” Art pauses, not quite sure how to make sense that commentaries like that belong to age group more advanced than theirs. It's not like Art doesn't _understand,_ but isn't it nice to dumb down conversation for dumb people around them? Oh, that's just downright mean. No, no, that's Paul's turf to go all evil on normal people. Art gives up and munches on his pastrami pile. Paul’s turned his attention to the rest of the group anyway.

Art listens absently. Every two sentences, Paul would make a joke and Art would have to suffer jaw pain from suppressing laughter whilst eating. Paul cares very little. He goes on talking about parents, "that stupid Maurice... oh wait he's walking towards us... look away, look away", music. Art stops his chewing ( _what did his mother put to make the pastrami this chewy?_ ) to say that he, too, likes Everly Brothers, and Paul turns at him again after that long break to say, “Duh.”

It begins to sound like he's formulating plans to practice with all five of them in this table. In a way, it’s relieving to know that Art’s not the only one facing the pressuring attention. And it seems to be quite an unspoken agreement within the group that Paul can be… unbearable. And a complete psycho.

Art feels a poke on his arm and turns his head to Paul, who stares at him with waiting face. “Practice. You in?”

“Oh.” Art realised that he’d skipped at least good 3 minutes from the conversation, dozing on his pastrami. 3 minutes can go with a buttload of information in a table filled with teenage boys. “When’s it again?”

“Thursday after school.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Awesome. We’ll meet at the bus stop, how’s that?”

“Cool, I guess.”

Paul’s lost interest in Art’s answers now, and Art returns to his peaceful lunch. It’s not until the end of lunchtime that he realised that he’d promised Nancy Darling a soda date.

***

Nancy Darling is _not_ amused, but Art’s decided that it’s much more dangerous to rouse the wrath of a psychopath than that of Nancy Darling’s. Besides, Art is good at this.

“Let’s move it to Tuesday,” he said, which _does_ amuse her. Art’s allowance comes on Monday anyway, so he’ll have more in his pocket on Tuesday than Thursday.

Anyway, at their age, no date is really that serious. They just walk and talk. A soda and a small snack, if they can afford it. They don’t really talk the next day, out of sheer embarrassment that they had, in fact, went on a date. It’s bizarre, but that’s how the game works. Art’s not even twelve yet—he’s turning twelve in November, still some while to go—and he can’t wait to get _at least_ fifteen, where people go on _actual_ date—probably. But these—these are good practice rounds. Art can perfect his skills for later life. The rest of his friends—older brother, too, even—seem to have troubles with this anyway, so it’s good that he has a lot of chance to do this. Girls always like him, it seems. He doesn’t brag much about it—although he _is_ proud of it—but he surely isn't going to let his gifts go to waste. Art is not one to take things for granted.

Besides, he enjoys his after-school walks, gallivanting with this girl or that. Not in player sort of changing partners, just an absent-minded mind-changing thing, perhaps. He's just a boy anyway. Nothing he does is intense, not yet. That can wait until puberty kicks in and he has to deal with swarming hormones... or something like that. Girls seem to be in it fairly quickly, but not many of them push too far. Art can be quite good with words and excuses if he wants to.

The truth is, coming home to his wire recorder can’t come soon enough. People might enjoy his voice, but no one enjoys it more than he does. Art loves singing—most of all, _his_ singing. He can listen to recording of himself all night, tweaking himself, learning. Whenever he thinks he gets better, he can forget every bad news he received that day—the grape soda's sold out, tonight's dinner is cabbage, Paul accidentally hit his head with a ball, his favourite shirt is stained. That damned mustard.

And now, too, after a soda trip with Nancy Darling—Art gave her a shy peck on the cheek—he walks lazily to his bedroom and finds the wire recorder on his desk. Avoiding his brothers, he shuffles to his bedroom, closes the door and begins singing. His parents had given him his own room when they realised how much he desired a room to practice on his own. It's around the same time that he received the wire recorder. His parents love his voice, after all. And why wouldn't they be? His voice is clear and gentle, like a breaking light through the clouds. He listens intently to himself, feeling the curves of his tones, enjoying the goosebumps his voice left in its wake. When his younger brother makes a careful knock, the moment’s gone and Art lets his recorder rest. Briefly, he looks at it and realised that someone out there, not his parents or himself, would love to hear every note that recorder keeps.

***

The Thursday practice was tense. It seemed like Paul stopped them every three notes to tell them that something’s wrong. He tweaked the harmony and they’d try again, then it began anew. Marty’s on the verge of choking Paul, but Howie calmed everyone down. Art, eventually, had to put his foot down too and told Paul to stop being so miserable. He finally succumbed to peer pressure and let the practice roll to its end with anger still in the air.

The practice was in Mickey’s garage and it lasted until his father returned. While Howie found his house just a few steps away, Marty quickly made his way to bus stop, way ahead of Paul, still fuming. Art, feeling bad, waited until the boy folded everything and ready to leave.

“You’re taking the bus?” It’s a little late for Art to walk and Mickey’s house is a bit far, but he’s still considering it. He expects Paul to opt for the alternative.

But Paul frowns and shakes his head. “I need to clear my head. Might walk. I’ll walk you to bus stop.”

“Oh.” Art purses his lips and remains unmoved. He’s not sure how to rebut that.

Paul's face is still annoyed, but he softens suddenly. “You wanna walk with me?”

“Oh.” Art swears he knows other words. He fumbles. “Are we— Are we heading to the same direction?”

“Huh. We are.” Paul sweeps a gaze towards the sidewalk, his voice filled with small surprise. “You know, my mom said that we’re actually neighbours, years back. I don’t know where you live exactly, though…”

“Oh, really?”

Paul looks at Art with amused eyes. “I was watching you, not stalking you. It’s not like I followed you around. What kind of creep do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, you seem like your own category of creep.”

“Hah! Fair enough.” Paul laughs and starts the trek. Art follows, careful with his steps so not to leave Paul behind. It’s not very necessary; Paul’s a fast walker. His mother said that insecure people walk fast. People who’s usually alone and insecure walk fast. Paul is a fast-walking testimony to his mother, it seems.

"I'm sorry about today," he says, breaking the awkward silence between steps. Art looks up, surprised at the sentiment. Paul puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs, walking faster still. "The practice. I can be... that. I'm sorry. I'm gonna be less annoying, I swear."

Art hesitates, then nods. "It's fine. It was fine."

"Good, good." Paul nods back, kicking rocks absent-mindedly. "I want you to enjoy the practices."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The night falls fast. When Art stops Paul in front of his house, the streets are already basking in golden lights from every house's open windows. Paul assesses Art’s house and says with disturbing enthusiasm, “So _that’s_ where you live.”

“Yeah.” Art shifts his leg, fully aware that his private residence is now known by a… Paul. He coughs weakly and asks, out of politeness, “Where do _you_ live?”

Paul looks at him with widened eyes and a goofy smile that pushes Art into a depressing self-consciousness until he eventually pulls out an, "it's not that I _want_ to know, but..." He tries to retreat, but there’s no going back. Defeated, he tries, "I was just making conversation."

Paul breaks the brief silence with laughter and raises his hand to give Art a reassuring pat, “You’ll know when you know. Bye, Ira.”

“It’s Art.”

“Artie.”

“ _Art_.”

Paul just waves to reply. Art watches him as he turns on his heels and dissolves into the dim golden distance.


	7. Where Art Takes Candy from A Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is everywhere, all the time.

Art’s not sure that he’s surprised that his bedroom now partially belongs to Paul. He had, after all, surrendered his address to a psychopath. Nearly every day, before going to his own home, Paul would stop by and practice an extra hour or two on their harmony. His mother seems to love Paul and is very happy to feed him with blintzes and leftovers. Paul, in turn, swallows the whole fridge like a baby hippo. How can a boy so small eat so much?

“Baseball,” was the answer. It’s true that Paul’s still a very active member in their school baseball team, in spite of his maniacal insistence on frequent vocal practice. Midfield, or somewhere. Art never really pays attention to his other ventures, but he’s thankful of their existence: at least, Paul’s not nesting in his bedroom when it’s baseball season, or after intense baseball practices. A couple of times he did, and wound up snoozing until his frantic mother came to pick up her missing son.

As to where Paul lives, Art never really gets a straight answer. He _would_ follow the boy out of curiosity, but why? _He_ is not a stalker, not a psycho. No, Art, calm down. What would happen if you voluntarily walk into a psychopath’s lair? You’ll die, Art. Not like you can wrestle or anything. No, you’ll die before you turn 15. Without ever going to a real date.

And it seems like Paul’s deliberately reeling. The five of them _never_ practise in his house. It’s always Mickey’s, or Marty’s. Howie’s place is stuffed with human, so it’s out of question. They’d done Art’s several times. But after 2-3 months of practising, no one’s ever mentioned anything on Paul’s lair. It gives Art chills.

And practices don’t come that easily anymore, nowadays. Paul—Paul’s a dedicated duck; no matter how tired he is from baseball, he never missed a practice. But the others would come up with club-related excuses. They’d make practices with three members or four. Soon, even that seems to be coming to a halt and Art spends more time practising with just Paul, given their proximity. Mickey and Howie swore they’re doing the same thing, but Art doubts that. Howie’s no Paul. No one is, really. How did Paul even come into being? How did Paul even manage to put a convincing claim that he is, in fact, a human? Had Art been letting not a psycho, but an _alien_ into his bedroom? Yikes.

In terms of his daily visitation to Art's bedroom, for one; not very human at all. Half the time, Paul doesn’t seem to know the use of the door. Art choked on his snack sandwich the first time he saw Paul trying to pry open his window, on his way of getting in. After several attempts of almost-vandalism, Art just leaves his windows unlocked and slightly ajar, even on rainy days. The boy has a baseball bat and Paul-like mind, him being Paul and all—breaking a window is a big possibility, thought Art. Art doesn’t enjoy broken windows, no.

Today, Paul does it again. Art, in his experienced understanding, has begun to notice that Paul always takes off his shoes before stepping in, leaving his window sills clean. Paul drops his shoes on top of his dirty jacket—Art isn’t sure how one gets _that_ much mud on one’s body—and casually grabs a handful of crisps on Art’s desk. Art rolls his eyes. “Sure, I wasn’t planning on eating those.”

“Sorry,” Paul mumbles. He fishes into his pockets and drops a handful of sweets on top of Art’s notebook. “Trade it for your snack. I can’t eat any more sugar. What are you doing? Do you have any more food? Your brothers home? Have you done your homework? Have you read the latest Captain Marvel? Actually, do you _even_ read comic books? Actually, do you even _read_?”

“Whoa.” Art makes a horse-calming gesture. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Ooh, development. Artie would say _everything’s_ wrong with me. Who are you and what have you done to The Garfunkels?”

“Paul.”

“Alright, I’m manic. Alright, I might have chucked a buttload of candies and washed it with a buttload of soda. Anyway, practice.”

Art watches as Paul drops himself on his bed, noting that he should change his blanket now that it’s absorbing Paul’s hair sweat. He’d ask more questions, but he knows better than that then. Paul's not gonna answer anything; he'd just divert the questions with odd counter-questions. So instead, Art fiddles with candies on his desk, examining each carefully. Paul had dropped a good variation of sweets: Dad’s Root Beer Barrels, Saf-T-Pops… Art smiles and pokes at the pile. “Flying Saucers,” he said happily.

Paul barks from the bed. “The alien one?”

“No, no, idiot. Satellite Wafers. This one. From you, remember? You dropped it, like, 5 seconds ago.” Art considers whether to rip the plastic, but he merely gives it more pokes. “I like these.”

Paul swings himself up. “Pegged you as a Marshmallow Peep guy.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Marshmallow Peep’s a league of its own.” Art decided not to. He places it back on his desk and watches Paul who's seemingly regaining sanity. Art lifts an appraising eyebrow and gives Paul a slight nod. “Normal now?”

Paul shrugs. “Never. Are we practising or what?”

Art stands up from his seat and walks towards Paul, settling on the carpet by the foot of the bed. “The others?”

“Uh, club, chore, club.” Paul joins Art on the carpet and begins to hum. Art instinctively joins in. He’s not even sure what they’re going to sing, but nowadays, when Paul hums, Art joins; his voice is on auto-pilot, as if Paul’s hijacked his vocal cord and installed himself all over the system. Art _would_ mind, but he likes the way they sound. Paul’s singing, in spite of his higher voice, is low and soothing, like a clay mug filled with hot tea to the brim. Art likes it. If Art’s singing’s like fresh morning, Paul’s like evening lullaby; they make a whole day together.

Art breaks off his reverie when he hears Paul’s giggling. Art looks up to ask, but his hair brushes Paul’s face and he soon understands the laughter. Art snorts and Paul breaks into a fit, doubling over himself.

“Sorry,” Art snickers. “I’ll do something with the hair. I’ll use a hat or gel or something.”

“Yeah, yeah, anything to stop them picking my nose,” Paul still hasn’t stopped laughing.

Art sits up straighter and brushes his hair with his fingers. “You know, you _could_ just move back away.”

“I did!” Paul spreads his arms defensively. “Your hair is just… _everywhere._ ”

“Fi-ine, I’ll shave them off, if that satisfies you.”

Paul stops, still grinning from ear to ear. “You know, it might just.”

Art laughs and shakes his head. “Shut up.”

This time, Paul actually does shut up, which alarms Art. He sneaks a peek at Paul, who’s looking down on his music sheets, quietly worried. Paul doesn’t seem to notice, but the fidgeting eyeballs betrays him a little. So, Art waits. But Paul’s better at this, so the silence extends longer than Art’s comfortable with and he surrenders the challenge.

That’s when Paul comes in.

“Artie, do you wanna go to my house tomorrow?”


	8. Where Art Knocks on the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul needs help (he really does).

Art’s more nervous than he wishes he is. And there really isn’t any reason to. It’s just a visit to a friend’s house, three blocks away. Sure, there’s that sushi-knife-related concerns, but after nearly a year of friendship—partnership?—Paul hasn’t shown any interest in going psycho-murderer on Art. So it’s probably more of a psycho-stalker thing, and there’s a big chance that Art _would_ survive this house visit. But, who knows, really..? It's too soon to tell. But his whole family knows where he’d be. If he goes missing, they’d know that The Simons are the first to be questioned. In spite of this, Art may or may not have left a will in his desk drawer.

Paul’s quiet—or maybe he’s not, but Art’s only half-listening to anything other than his own thoughts. He walks ahead of Art, fast-paced, hands stuffed in his trousers pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. Paul has that leather jacket on and collar turned up, still drinking on pool of fascination for Elvis. Art studies the hair. What’s he using? Gel? Chicken fat?

Art startles when he feels a tug on his arm, then Paul, “Left, mophead.” Art changes his angles, slightly dragged by Paul. Art gets lost in his thoughts way too often. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, just keep up.”

Paul still hasn’t let go of the arm.

***

Paul opens the door unapologetically and orders— _orders—_ Art to get in. Like Art's his dog or something. He yells into the house, calling his brother’s name, then looks back at Art, who's still at the door. “Mom’s not home yet. School teacher. Takes forever to go home, way too fed up with kids. She’s gonna be home soon, though. EDDIE!”

“What?!” Art stretches his neck to find a spitting image of Paul, only with a common annoyed face familiar to those who know Paul, storming to the front door. He wears similar red tee that Paul usually wears, a common fashion-twinning crime unwise parents always commit. His hair is not sleeked with mysterious shiny goop, though, and Art learns the true shape of Paul's hair from him. The boy looks at Art, much more demure than Paul.

Paul cocks his head. “Artie, Eddie. Eddie, scamper.”

“What?!” He glares at Art with an annoyed scowl, noting Art’s sincere surprise and returns to his brother, who most definitely is the sole mastermind behind this vile operation. “Just because you bring your friend home, doesn’t mean I have to leave. There’s enough room for three in this house, you know?”

“Yes, but I have limited room for idiots, and that’s one. Skip.” Eddie folds his arms, legs parted as if making a firm stand on the ground. Paul grumbles impatiently, messing with the back of his hair. “Fine. What do you want for your absence until dinner?”

“Your bike, your secret stash of sweets, 5 of your comic books, you doing my chores for a month.”

“My bike until dinner, sweets, 3 of my comic books, chores for a week.”

"Throw in your orange soda."

“Sold.”

Paul pushes his hand into his pocket, fumbling for a while, then throws a key to Eddie. “If you wreck it, I’ll slow-cook you for dinner.”

Eddie grins. “No, you won’t. I have too much fat. Good luck, eh, Artie!”

He runs past Art with a wave and vanishes behind the wall before reappearing again with a silver bike in his hands. Good luck. Well, that's reassuring. Paul tugs on Art’s shirt. “Come on,” his head makes an inviting gesture.

Art follows Paul, closing the door behind him. “You don’t have to send him away, you know.”

“Nah, I need peace and quiet. Eddie would watch TV all day.” Paul pauses in front of the stairs. “Huh. Now I have to eat all my sweets before he comes home.”

Art snorts a laughter and Paul looks at him with a smile, waiting for the humour to pass before telling Art to go upstairs to his room. Art complies, making his way. As per instructed, he opens the first door to the left, painted red.

The inside of the room isn’t very special. A bed, hastily made, a couple of shirts thrown over the blanket. Wood floor scattered by open books, music sheets, records and crumpled paper, as if someone’s deliberately leaving behind trails of breadcrumbs leading nowhere. Paul’s guitar is leaning by the nightstand. Desk is surprisingly immaculate, so are the bookshelves. He wasn’t kidding about the books; these are more advanced than anything Art’s ever read. Okay, that's not really saying anything.

Art turns his attention from bookshelves to the thumping sound from outside the room. He drops his bag and looks out the door, finding Paul wobbling on the stairs. “What are you doing?”

“Giving a birth to a cow. What do you think I’m doing? I’m lifting a hi-fi, that’s what,” he grumbles.

Art crosses his arms in front of his chest, judging. “Doesn’t seem to be _that_ heavy.”

“No, but I do enjoy knocking it on staircase. Shut up and open the door wide for me.”

Initially unsure of whether to help the lifting, Art takes pleasure in simply opening the door and letting Paul bring in his load. Art closes the door when Paul manages to settle, and somewhat begins to feel uneasy. He’s _actually_ in Paul’s room, in Paul’s house. More than that, Paul’s _empty_ house. Even, Paul's _empty_ bedroom. Yep, he’s definitely a dead meat. Tonight’s meat pie, definitely.

Paul, completely unaware of his heavily-sweating friend, begins to rummage through a box under his bed, takes a record and places it on the hi-fi. Art, curiously, isn’t very soothed by the music. It can be a way to silence torture, of course. Art is paranoid. It's not his fault, half of his cousins have hypochondria. He carefully watches Paul, who seems to be very determined not to look at Art, which is disconcerting.

After a long minute of silence, Paul finally looks up. “Artie,” he begins, his voice serious and intense, it makes Art tremble. Paul draws a very, _very_ deep breath. “Teach me how to speak to girls.”

Art blinks. His mouth must be gaping because air comes and goes rather freely, stuffing his throat. “You—what?” was what he said when he found words. “You… _What?_ ”

“Girls, Artie. Long-haired, giggling sort of human being. You’d know. You’re surrounded by them all the time.”

Art is taken aback. He feels the air leaving him all at once, as if someone had punched them out of his body. “Girls… _What?_ Is this what this whole thing’s about? You wanna talk to… girls?” The more he talks about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. He suppresses a huge grin, knowing Paul wouldn’t appreciate it. “You could’ve told me yesterday, at my house!”

“No way! Your mother might be standing behind the door, laughing at my incompetence! Oh, _oh,_ very nice, Artie. Go on, laugh it off. It’s not like your friend’s asking for help or anything.”

Art purses his lips, stopping himself. He takes a few seconds to stop trembling from glee. “Ease me in, Paul. What’s going on?”

“GIRLS! THAT’S WHAT’S GOING ON!” Paul’s voice thunders over the record and he stomps his way to his bed, dropping himself over his strewn shirts. It’s difficult not to feel sorry for him, or to laugh at him. Art’s losing the battle.

“Okay, start over. What _exactly_ happened?”

“God made Eve and now all Adams are screwed.”

“Paul.”

“Okay, fine.” Paul props himself up, looking bravely at Art with face red as beet. “Girls from St Augustine saw me practising baseball the other day and asked if I’d go with them to… do something, I didn’t catch the last few words. I _think_ I said yes. Or a mumbling variation of that.”

Art feels like he’s turning blue from holding his breath, but manages a normal, if slightly trembling, voice in reply. “Okay… What, you’ve never talked to girls before?”

“Pass the flyer, please.”

“That… doesn’t count. Just… talk about what you talk about with me.”

Paul grins. "So you're a girl, huh?"

Art rolls his eyes. "Very nice, Paul. Right, so I don't think you need my help? I'm just gonna go, and..."

"No! No, sorry!" Paul shoots up to his feet and pulls Art away from the door. “Joking. Okay, so, talk about what I talk about you... what? About how to talk to girls?”

“What are you, an idiot? No! Anything, other than that!”

Paul throws his arms in the air, defeated. “So, what? Talk about music, is that it? I should talk to them about… about Peter Seeger and The Ravens, or… or, what, all that?”

“Yes!”

Paul shakes his head stubbornly. “What if I bore them with all that?”

“Well, don’t tell them that the harmony’s wrong, and you’re golden.”

“What if they _don’t_ like any of those at all?”

“Then dump them, because they don’t know good music and they’re not worth your time!”

Paul frowns, but not exactly at Art. An idea is settling in his head, Art can see. Paul visibly relaxes and he lets out an audible sigh. Art raises his eyebrow. “All calmed, now?”

Paul nods. “That was embarrassing.”

“I’m agreeing with you,” Art nods back. He offers a kind smile, reassuring. “You know, I kinda… didn’t expect that. I mean, you’re in baseball team. I thought you’d have your way around girls by now.”

Paul shrugs. “Just never paid that much attention, I guess. I mean, they’re cute and all, but they’re… kinda better to just look at from afar. Like cats. Or friendly raccoons.”

Art smirks in understanding. “Just relax. They’re just… people.”

Paul nods again. “Yeah, yeah. Maybe I think too much.”

“First time for everything,” Art jokes.

Paul looks at him funny, then begins to smile. “What, you think I don’t?”

Art shrugs. “You don’t seem so. Like, you don’t seem to think as much as you should.”

“Huh.”

“Not in bad way, just… You seem pretty casual all the time. Joking, kidding around, stuff like that.”

“Oh.” Paul laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, Artie, Artie. You know, you _think_ I’m funny because I’m _trying_ to be funny. That’s how I lure you in, idiot.”

Art opens his mouth, torn between scared and flattered, and probably a bit angry and insulted. Creases on his forehead deepens the way they do when Art’s fumbling on words. He found: “You really are a freak, aren’t you?”, which was answered by a firm yes. But Art isn’t necessarily annoyed by that. No, not anymore. He’s probably much more used to Paul’s obsessiveness than he expects himself to. So Art simply sighs and seizes the opportunity. “Well, it seems to work on _me._ You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Paul raises his eyebrow, considering, then nods. He stands up and turn the record on hi-fi, spending the rest of the day returning to his normal self. Which is to say that there’s nothing normal at all, and that soothes Art more than he wants to admit.


	9. Where Paul Meets the Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and the girls from St Augustine.

His father wouldn’t mind, but his mother might break a vase over his head had she known that he’s out here, hanging out with girls from Catholic school. It’s almost funny. Eddie would freak out, unsure where his loyalty should lie. Poor Eddie. He's too good for his own good.

Paul takes another drag, carefully inhaling and exhaling this time. The first time, he choked on the tickling sensation in his throat, inciting laughters off the girls. It doesn’t taste nice. At all. But he must’ve looked real cool with cigarette hanging on his lips. The girls sure do.

“So, you like it?” asks one of them—the blonde one—they’re all blonde.

Paul shrugs.

“I think it’s _so cool_ that you play guitar,” the other one points behind Paul’s shoulder. He’d brought his guitar, yes. He strategically thinks that playing several songs would save him an awful lot of conversation, all while looking dazzling.

“Play it for us,” one of them coaxes. Paul shrugs again and does as requested. They don’t seem to mind that Paul shrugs a lot to answer their remarks, and Paul soon learns—by instinct—that they find it “cool” that Paul doesn’t talk much. It works well for him. He can look as disinterested as he wants—quite rightly so, too. It's not that they're particularly boring, just... he's not sure how to enjoy their company. Not yet.

He plays a rock and roll piece and a couple of ballads, carefully looking at one exact girl each song. Somehow, it makes them think that the song's for them. It's not, really. But anyway, at the end of the short gig, they seem to be all dazzled, as planned. They don’t make protests when Paul lead them to a nearby diner. They sit on a bright, semi-circle red sofa up on the stairs. A waitress with bored face and pinstriped dress shirt hands them menu. He orders a cherry soda float and get the girls a banana split.

The conversation runs alright. They don’t hate music, but they don’t exactly listen to what Paul listens to. He takes them, in turn, to the jukebox and they listen to three songs before leaving for the bus stop. He watches them as they giggled their way back. He may or may not have kissed all three of them by the jukebox when he’s sure none of the other girls were watching from their mezzanine seat. Not much to it. Like Artie said, he’s got nothing to worry about. God created Eve and now all Adams are screwed. Perhaps all Adams _need_ to be screwed.

***

He finds Art running towards him on the corridor the next day. It’s an unusual sight to see, considering Art spends most of his time trying to run _away_ from Paul. Paul hides his grin at the obvious reason and chooses to tend to his watch, as if it’s very interesting. Art catches up to him, excited, his giant hair bobbing on top of his head. In spite of having hair like lion, Art is very... doe-like, it's fascinating.

“So?” he urges, when he's close enough to Paul. Paul deliberately moves back a little, to annoy Art and to see if he's gonna take another step closer in pursuit. He did.

“So?” Paul asks back, ignorantly.

Art frowns, still grinning. “The date, idiot. It’s yesterday, wasn’t it? How did it go?”

“Oh.” Paul shrugs, genuinely disinterested. “We talked. We smoked. We ate ice cream. Man, girls are expensive. I need to get a job if I want to get one of those permanently.”

Art hesitates. “That’s it?”

“What’s there to expect?”

“Oh, I don’t know. After your freak out the other day, I was expecting you jumping up and down about next date or first kiss, or completely broken by the fact that no one liked you.”

“Hah. That’s not bad. But no, can’t kiss a girl with two of her friends watching. Wouldn’t mind kissing all three, but wouldn’t I get beaten up for that?”

Art pauses to let the words sink in. He starts again, staggering. “That’s it with them, then?”

Paul nods, final. “That’s it. Honestly, they’re pretty much just a practice round. Now I know how to speak to girls, I guess. Not like it matters for now. Besides,” he lowers his voice in comically serious manner and whispers loudly, “they’re not Jewish.”

Art laughs. That is _so_ what his mother would say. “So, what, now? Swearing off girls?”

“Nah, nothing like that. Just… I don’t know. Girls are around.”

Art thinks it through, realising he’d thought that, too, once, not too long ago. He nods to himself, but refuses to give Paul the satisfaction. “Yeah, like you have more important things than girls?”

“Oh, I do. You.” Paul looks up at Art, whose eyes are widened in surprise. He doesn’t smirk that crooked smile, though. Instead, Paul’s more focused than Art’s ever seen before. Serious. Adult. “I told you I’m gonna make you famous. I’m doing that before we leave for college. We don’t have time to dawdle.”

Before Art can compute an answer, Paul had patted him on the arms. “I’ll see you tomorrow for practice.”


	10. Where They Take Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul & Art are growing, and that's all there is. (Seriously, that's all there is.)

Paul’s obviously still thinking about girls. Art can see that much. Or perhaps he’s imagining it. But, who knows? Does Paul like human at all? No, no, he’s an alien who lives off music. He likes noises that humans make, not the ones making it. So, probably not. But he’s definitely writing songs about girls. Is it one of those girls from St Augustine that he’s referring to? Which one? All of them? Or is it someone else in school? Who's the one he has crush on? Has he ever told Art? Wait, isn't it settled that Paul _doesn't_ like humans?

“I don’t know why I bother.”

Art blinks. He clears his throat. “Come again?”

“Exactly!” Paul huffs, exasperated. “Artie, doze off all you want, but when we’re practising, please get your butt off the clouds. I need you here.”

“Oh.” Art shrinks in his seat. “Sorry, I was… thinking.”

“Oh, and I was farting words out of my mouth. Sure, go on.”

“Sorry.”

Paul opens his mouth again, but decided against it. He’d wasted time already, with all the pulling Art’s head out of his trance. So instead, he picks up his pencil again, marks a few points, and returns to his guitar. This time, Art, without much fuss, joins in. Paul pauses for a long time when they’re finished rehearsing the verse, lost in thought but definitely is still thinking about their music. ("Not about which girl the song’s about," thought Art.)

“You know,” he begins slowly, “I think we should take it to my Dad.”

Art stammers. “You—what? Your Dad?”

“Yeah,” he continues thoughtfully, then pushes on with more surety. “Just take it to him and see if it’s any good, or things like that. He knows what he’s doing. He’s… not scary.”

Art laughs. “Yeah, that’s very convincing.”

Paul grins. “Sorry. I just meant, he’d be able to point us to the right direction. Let’s face it, Artie, we’re kids. And there’s no shame in pulling all resources. I mean, not like we’re gonna mooch off my Dad to adulthood; just a guidance when we’re kids. What’s that for a footnote?”

“Footnote… You’re nuts. Whatever.” Art shakes his head, but smiling in agreement.

“You know what’s not technically a nut?”

“Brazil nuts. You’ve said that 13 times.”

***

What Mr. Simon did was writing down all the words and all the chords of that short, simple song and take both boys to see the process of registering a song. Surprisingly simple, and now they own their first song ever. It’s very grown-up. Very professional. They can’t stop grinning, occasionally shrieking (Art), on the way home.

On the following week, Mr. Simon brought them to his workplace, in radio station, to see what’s going on behind the music they listen to on daily basis. He invited both boys to record a small demo with Paul’s songs, and they went home feeling giddy. Paul’s right, Art thinks. They _might_ need to learn more about this, and this is a very good start. There’s no shame, true. And this is hella fun.

With new pride and confidence, the two sang their original songs in neighbourhood events, soon becoming the darlings of their neighbourhood. Art enjoys the attention, all the while noticing the growing anxiety in Paul. It’s the father, he soon noticed. Stern and leaps and bounds ahead of him, Mr. Simon is nothing but critical. Art tries his best to be happy for both of them, but it gets both tiring and scary to see how Paul enjoys taking the burden of suffering. He’s busy doing it, like he’s busy doing music. Perhaps, even, it’s what fuels him, the suffering. Art’s more into happy things. He tries to bother, but at some rate, he just can't. Paul doesn't seem to mind. He probably prefers to suffer alone.

Paul turned 13 last October. Art had been there for the celebration. People came and Paul's not very happy about it. Not about the people, no—Paul enjoys people. It's the insufferable conversations that he didn't. He spent time hiding under the table, eating cakes with Art and whispering to Eddie to get them more lemonade. Art, from beneath the tablecloth, realised that he took so much after his father. Mr. Simon, too, has the fascinating capacity to just walk off in the middle of conversation not worth engaging. Is it genetic? Will Paul's far descendant develop ability to vanish to thin air when small talks come to stir?

Anyway, that's Paul's turn of the year. The following month would be Art’s and he’d prepared something special for it. When he brought it up to Paul, still licking his creamy spoon, he’s met by an unexpected surprise.

“Of course you’d be invited,” Art says in disbelief. “Why do you think otherwise?”

“I don’t know." Paul shrugs. "Things. I mean, I _knew_ I would be invited, just… not sure if you’d like me there. Like, actually _like_ me there.”

Art shakes his head. “You’re way in your head, Paul. Just come, okay? You’ll like it, I promise.”

Paul snorts. “I barely like _my_ bar mitzvah. What’s gonna be different enough for me to like in yours? The fact that it’s _you_ who’s gonna fumble on Torah?”

Art grins. “Something like that. Thought you’d like an opportunity to ridicule me, that’s all.”

Paul smiles, much less weird now that he’s got the full affirmation that he needs. “That would be a blessing,” he said. He fiddles with his cake for some moment, then clears his throat shyly. Without looking at Art, he asks, "Artie, do you like me?"

Art lifts an eyebrow. He leaves his spoon on the little plate, and gently squeezes Paul's shoulder. He waits until Paul looks up. Then he nods. "I like you, Paul."

The Sabbath day following Art’s 13 birthday was indeed a blessing. It’s a _long_ blessing, for Art had decided to sing for four straight hours, both enchanting and putting people to sleep. By the end of his exhausting performance, the only person with not an ounce of yawn was his now-best-friend, sitting on the eighth row with his dozing friends, wearing powder blue shirt with a slap of a grey tie. His hair looked neat—his mother must've prepped him. It was difficult for Art to find Paul in the midst of his audience, him being small and wearing formal attire, but he managed anyway. From afar, Art would steal a glance to see if Paul's as captured by his voice as he claimed to be. And he seemed to be true to his words. He nodded along, refusing sleep. When Art felt like fainting under the synagogue, Paul simpered and clapped quietly, pulling Art back up. They traded smile from afar, although neither was really sure the gesture belonged to the other.

Art was gone for a while that day, and Paul spent his time amongst drooling boys to ponder upon Art. That’s the voice he wants. For him, to be with him, whatever—he just wants it. There are melodies he knows he needs to create for that voice—songs that he knows will stir the world had it been sung by that voice. He can shape a universe of its own out of that voice. That boy—a walking bones with pumping heart—needs to be there for its genesis. Paul still has to have him.

The next few minutes was bizarre. Paul found himself two blocks away from the synagogue, never realising what had gotten into him and when and how he even wound up there. He needed to walk away from all that, perhaps. Perhaps, it’s too overwhelming to know what you want that surely. Perhaps.

Paul kicked a rock on the sidewalk, mulling. Artie’s one-way ticket. Once he’s got him, he’s not going back. Somewhere had to start somewhere.


	11. Where Art Has Flower for Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art enjoys it, but it's just a hobby, right?

On summer of 1955, Art was confiscated from Paul’s musical life by lung infection. Paul, somehow, was more freaked out about it than Art; which is saying something, considering how much Art’s freaked at the thought of losing his voice. But Paul, for once, was sensible enough not to dump his anxiety on Art and took a period to focus on other things that are... not Art. Like baseball. Or song-writing. Or, eventually, girls. Art, in turn, rests and finds other things to enjoy. He read and Paul supplied him with everything that he thought was good, listened to all records Paul brought him on daily basis, enjoyed the absurd attention from Paul, and, most of all, played some idle basketball games; so often that, at the end of his infection, he’d become somewhat of a Guru in free throws.

On the day Art declared that he’s ready to sing again, Paul stared at him as if he’s made of yellow rubber and squeaks when squeezed. Art sighed impatiently and began to sing—their song, about that mysterious girl with flowers in her hair. As he sang, he noticed that what's on Paul’s face all along had been fear and worry, and they’re melting away as Art went on hitting familiar notes. When he’s done, Paul had a smile on his face. Art grinned back, slightly panting from the demonstration. He shoved Paul's shoulder playfully. “Never asked. Who’s the girl in the song?”

“Ask again, and I’ll shave your head.” Paul slapped his hand on Art’s back, a slightly more violent patting, and walked home, his steps bouncy. It put smile on Art’s face. No cast had ever been more spot-on: Paul really _is_ the White Rabbit.

The works that followed were done quickly. Now that they’re committed to doing music just between the two of them, they don’t have to wait until schedules line up and things actually go smoother without such distractions. Their parents support the venture, exchanging information between worried families who’s short a son, checking their progress, passing them along. Mr. Garfunkel bought them a new recorder, which they keep in Paul’s room and use very accordingly. Mr. Simon is usually busy, but when he’s interested, he’s very helpful. He still doesn’t like the songs his son listens to, calling them “stupid”, but let the boys do what they want. Paul never lets go of that, though. That day, he steamed off and burst, “Dad, it’s _genius._ Earth Angel, don’t you get it? Earth. Angel. That’s lyrical genius!” Oh, no, Paul never lets go.

But mostly, things set up well. They go from building to building handing their records, Paul sets off on bus and Artie, nuts that he is, walks. Paul splits his time between school and baseball, Artie and practices, and hanging around recording studios, learning what he can. He’s a smart kid, Paul, if puts his head to good use. Soon, he obtains good enough skill to operate nearly everything he’d ever encountered in studios, and more. “A valuable asset,” as Mr. Garfunkel puts it.

Art is much cooler about the whole venture. He puts less pressure on it. He is, after all, a student. His academic prowess is nearly as magical as his voice; Art’s quite the wizard with numbers. “The young man’s looking at respectable future ahead,” said Mr. Simon once. That’s a subtle snap on his own son, but Paul doesn't think much of it. Respectable future… that sounds bleak. Nah, Artie’s not having that. A grand adventure, that’s what’s up for him. Paul’s voluntarily taking responsibility for that. He promised, didn’t he? No, he didn’t. Yeah, well. It could be one of those things he promised himself. Not like he’s keeping it any less. No, sir, that’s not how The Simons are raised.

“Paul.”

Paul’s eyes dart from side to side, as if waking up from long nap. He might. Art’s in front of him, a familiar sight. But today, suddenly, Paul finds need to laugh at that, so he does. Art has that look on his face: a smile that’s happy to see Paul laughing to the point of choking on his own drool, and a frown that’s concerned for both Paul’s sanity and Art’s safety. After a while, Art finally says, “Seriously, Paul, stop laughing. What’s so funny anyway?”

Paul pushes the back of his hand against his mouth, trying to stop his giggling. He couldn't. His answer comes with another fit of giggles. “Your head’s _so_ like dandelion.”

Art pushes his body backwards, away from Paul, and stares intently at the lunatic. “You’ve _seen_ my head before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but not… dandelion-y.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful. You should put that in our next song.”

Paul snickers. “Yeah.” He brings his fingers to press on his guitar strings, regaining senses completely now. He strums a soft chord, eyes sparkling and distance as he looks for melodies in his head and ways to transpose it to his guitar. His lips part, voice coming as ringing echo, gentle. “ _The Dandelion’s pallid tube astonishes the Grass… and winter instantly becomes an infinite alas…_ ”

Art raises his eyebrows, impressed. “You just whipped that there?”

“That? Nah, that’s Emily Dickinson. I have the, uh, book somewhere.” By now, Paul’s already on his feet, scrambling towards his bookshelf with guitar still slung over his shoulder. He crouches and scans the arrays of books, invisible from Art but he knows that the eyes are wincing. When Paul’s straightened himself up, there’s a frustrated scratch behind the head that tells Art that the book’s nowhere to be found. Sure enough, Paul turns and announces his defeat. He walks back and settles down in front of Art again, with a shrug, “I’ll lend it to you whenever I may find her.”

“Thanks,” Art replies politely. Art is still starting to love reading more. He doesn’t hate it—he always quite likes reading, really, only not very used to it, perhaps—but he’s used up most of his reading energy during his long rest in the summer before, and he wants to do other things for now. He has other hobbies. Like… eating candies. Or... eating snacks.

Or, hanging out with girls. He’s 14 now, only a year apart from what he deems to be the “appropriate age of _real_ date”. He’s looking forward to it. He’s laying the seeds now, sure to invite a real special girl on some sort of winter date that will follow his birthday. Ice-skating, maybe. That’s a good excuse to hold hands, right? They can share a cup of hot chocolate. Art wouldn't mind letting her have all the marshmallows. Maybe she'll be so happy and fall in love with Art. Maybe they’ll kiss at the illumination.

Art giggles at himself. In his mind, his imaginary date was interrupted by Paul, dragging Art by the arm, telling him that it’s time to practise, leaving the girl with closed eyes and puckered lips with nothing to kiss as Art disappears into distance. This time, it’s Paul’s turn to rouse him from the daydream with an unnecessarily irritating “what”.

“Nothing, just… You’ve been so much more intense since…” Art pauses, not sure how to go on.

Paul tittered and completes the sentence, “Always?”

Art nods and laughs. Has Paul really changed? No, not really, he’s always been like that. Obsessive, disturbing. But this—his abnormal drive—is what lured Art in, and this is what makes him stay. He’s not the only one who wants to go far off. Art might be much more aloof, but that’s only because no one can match Paul. Art wants it. He really wants it, too. Paul’s one-way ticket: you take it, you take off. Forever.

But how long will this last? Will it last long, really? Art knows what he should do, in the future. The _proper_ thing to do. He’ll begin dating a nice girl— _Jewish_ girl, his mother would say—at 15, at least, and they’ll become high school sweethearts well into graduation. It may last after, it may not, but either way, Art’s going to school. He’ll learn… something. He likes to learn, he’s _good_ at it. He’ll get his degree. Then he’ll work, and marry, some kids—small dandelions, Paul would call them, because he's sure still going to tease Art well into the future (and, yes, Paul will _still_ be around Art, because he's a psycho who wouldn't let go)—a car, a house, normal. Perfect. His parents would be moderately proud. He'd be moderately well-off. Well-respected life, and all. American dream.

That’s what he should do, isn’t it? What he and Paul are doing, right now, it’s just an extra credit.

Isn’t it?


	12. Where They Chase and They Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Schoolgirl.

Paul reads minds because Paul is Paul and Paul is… _very_ Paul. Doubts have begun to settle on Artie’s mind, he can tell. Not doubts about them, but rather about where they’re going and whether they’re _really_ going there. Artie doesn’t see it. Art probably thinks this is just a childish skit, something they'd blow past once adolescence hits. But Paul—Paul tells future. Paul _makes_ future. His future isn’t bleak, is nothing mediocre. He’s talking about stardom, as big or even bigger than Elvis. Elvis, Everly’s, everyone rolled up into one; more than that. He and Artie, they’re going there, and he’s gonna carry Artie kicking and screaming if he had to. He might have to. (That would be fun.)

In the wake of Artie's detached approach on things, Paul becomes more frantic. He took more side jobs, dragging Artie to school dance performances (convincing him that it’s a good way to learn how to dance with girls), practising guitar until he bleeds. Nothing worrying, just very Paul. On summer before they both turned 16, Paul’s collected enough money to make a record. He picked up Artie from the store where the tall boy works as checker, Paul also still in his uniform, and they set off to splurge every single penny they had on a single session. The recording went well enough. Probably. Paul’s not very sure. They don’t sound horrible. In fact, they sound pretty good. After years of travelling around bringing home failure, this could probably it. It’s not a bad song, is it? No, it isn’t. In fact, it's quite good. A much better version of things he'd written in the past years. Art’s quite surprised at how much Paul writes about girls, considering how oblivious he is on the subject. At that remark, Paul frowned and said, after a consideration, that “no one’s interested in songs about stuff that’s going on in my head. People believe teenagers are obsessed with girls, don’t they?”

He _was_ right, though. And when he’s got a phone call alerting their upcoming audition, he screams all the way to Art’s house and loudly presses his face on Art’s window, startling Art who, in fact, is with a girl. Art opens the curtain, ready to beat Paul with a brick.

“Hey, Schoolgirl.”

The girl in Art’s room—pretty, tall, dark-haired in ponytail, dressed modestly in yellow dress—acknowledged the odd greeting and said a hesitant, “Hello.”

Paul waves his hand dismissively. “No, not you. _You._ Artie! We’ve got the audition!”

Art rolls his eyes and groans in exasperation. “Paul, you’re unbel—wait, what?”

“Audition.”

“Hey, Schoolgirl?”

“ _Audition._ ”

Art opens and closes his mouth a couple of times like a breathless guppy; again, losing the ability to speak English. Finally, “Oh my God,” he gasped. The girl, no one really remembers her name by then, just looks at them agape. When Art screams so loud to the point where his mother rushes up to his bedroom, fearing for her son’s life, she picks up all her belongings and takes her leave without a word. Paul quickly climbs in, shoes off, and jumps to place both hands over Artie’s mouth, shutting him, but laughs merrily and quickly pulls Art into a tight hug. At the sound of the approaching footsteps, Paul turns his head and grins at the door and says, gleefully, “Mrs. Garfunkel, we’ve got the audition! We’re going on Tuesday, can I take him? Please?”

Mrs. Garfunkel sighs in relief and nodds at Paul before pulling them both in a warm hug, congratulating the two boys. When Mrs Garfunkel left to broadcast the good news to whoever she could think of calling, neither knows what to do. Paul’s torn between dragging Artie to emergency intensive practice until Tuesday and celebrating by jumping on his bed. Art’s torn between screaming again at the risk of denting his vocal cord and crying under the pillows until it all subsides.

What they eventually decided on is to hug; much less spirited reaction than their initial ideas, but apparently much more emotional. Before he realised what he's doing, Art is already sobbing on top of Paul’s head. He tilts his head, trying to drop his tears somewhere else that’s not Paul’s hair. Paul’s trembling like leaf under him. Not crying, but seemingly—he doesn't know it's even possible—even much more emotional than Art. Unreasonably, Art fears that he might break and explode. So he tightens the embrace until there’s no more room for Paul to move; so he wouldn't fall, and he wouldn't break, and he wouldn't disappear. Art's arms are telling him that he's safe, that it's alright, that he should stay. Paul buries himself into the comforting tale they're telling. They could feel each other’s heart, beating loudly in their chests, as if trying to get out. It hurts. They doesn't succumb to the pain. They just keep on hugging until they're out of breath.

They didn’t realise Mrs. Garfunkel had returned to let them know that Mr. Garfunkel’s agreed to drive them to the audition. She gasps when she finds them both hugging on the verge of tears, then pulls them back into her arms, patting their backs. She smells like melted fat, in a good way. Their hearts slow down and eventually, Paul shifts in the folds of Garfunkels. Art relaxes his arms.

When Mrs. Garfunkel finally lets them go and leaves them alone in the bedroom, neither Paul nor Art dares to look at each other, fearing to acknowledge how difficult it was to part when there’s just the two of them in that tangle of embrace.


	13. Where They Did It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom & Jerry made it to American Bandstand.

Well, they've done it. Auditions, recording deal, breaking the pop charts. People in school talk to them, want to know them. Artie—Artie’s used to the girls, but there are guys too, now. Paul enjoys the admiration, not much the communication. He’d disappear and leave Art to deal with the local fans, occasionally answer to things in his dismissive manner. That, unless someone asks about the music, the writing, and… other music things. Paul’s still Paul, it seems. Added confidence, fuelled more than ever, but still Paul; not very invested in mortal men, but divine music.

Sure, he has a father to impress. Mr. Simon, in Art’s more recent opinion, isn’t all that scary. Even Paul admits that he’d like if his father has more time to spend with him. But it’s a father and son thing, isn’t it? There’s a lot to prove when it’s your father. Mothers, they love you unconditionally. But fathers come with terms. Make me proud or… well, you’re just a name in a piece of paper. More or less like that.

But surely he’s going to be _actually_ proud of Paul now. They’re invited to American Bandstand, for heaven’s sake! Both their mothers weeps with pride after prepping them; their hair, neaten up and dressed; Art's brothers, shut up. Eddie hugs both Art and Paul, surprisingly emotional for the occasion even though he's gonna be just another audience at home. Paul seems to find difficulty breathing and holding back tears, but managed a tight hug and a pat on the back before letting go of Eddie. He'd bring him too, someday, he promised. Just practice hard, he said. Eddie nods with determination. Art thinks that his brothers could've tried being much less of an ass too, tonight. That would've been much preferred.

Mr. Simon drives them up to Philadelphia, not saying much to the muted boys on back seats. Art and Paul sit far apart, on either side of the car, lost in thoughts, avoiding each other because if they share anything, this will seem much too real, much too big for just the two of them. Even separated by a car seat, it's still nearly unbearable. Art’s more excited than nervous, Paul’s definitely much more nervous than alive. Both of them look like they might vomit from time to time. Mrs. Simon, the smart stick, had secretly prepared a couple of sickness bags stashed in the dashboard. They, however, hold themselves back all the way to Philadelphia. Mr. Simon wishes them luck, pats Art sternly on shoulder, and hugs Paul. Paul wakes up from the daze when his father let go and, somehow, disappears.

Paul looks at Art with scared eyes. It's odd how Paul could look so scared. Artie's scared all the time, so it's nothing new. But Paul—Paul doesn't have that look. This is a whole new world. "Let's get in, then," Paul said, his voice shaking. Not reassuring at all. He tugs on Art's sleeve, who is frozen on the doorway. With what's left of his energy, Art weakly follows Paul to the dressing room, ducking his head and trying to disappear, but failing because his hair is too big.

By this time, Paul has begun to think about their uniform. They’re wearing matching suits, it’s nearly ridiculous. If they don’t look so different, he would’ve preferred calling Art his brother than friend; would press less embarrassment, it seemed. But he swallows it and succumbs to the joy of being…

“Holy, sh—Paul!” Paul stops when Art pulls his arm back, nearly falling backwards. Paul hisses angrily, but Art lowers his voice and somehow managed to hide behind Paul, and whispers: “That’s Jerry Lewis.”

Paul's eyes widen. He mutters, “Oh, fuck.”

Colours drained from Paul’s face and Art’s not sure whether showing him their musical hero is a good decision, but that’s. Jerry. Freaking. Lewis. Art feels like pissing his pants. Where's the toilet? Can he piss in a vase or something? Where does he throw up, then?

Paul nudges Art with his elbow, already grinning. That's a good thing. That's a good thing that Paul's grinning. Not like Art, who's probably gonna start crying. “Do you think he’s going to sing Great Balls of Fire?”

“Oh, Paul, I _can’t_!”

“Do you think he’s going to sing before us?”

“Paul, seriously, I _can’t_!”

“Holy shit, that’s Jerry Lewis.”

“Paul.”

Paul now turns to find Art on the verge of crying, and tunes himself back to the usual Paul. He takes Art’s hand and leads him to a nearby seat, let him breathe like they always do before performances where Art’s especially nervous. Usually, there’s a girl involved, or a bully. Or a first time. Well, this time, it’s Jerry Lewis. How’s that different? Well, it’s Jerry Lee Lewis for one. And for two and all the way to two hundred. But, anyway, it's not unusual. Paul steadies himself and presses his palms on Art's arms. 

“Artie, calm down. It’s a big deal, I know. But we’re not gonna blow it unless you won’t stop freaking out.” Paul fixes Art’s bowtie. Not straight, but straight enough. He smiles at the bowtie, but Art mistook it. Before Paul withdraws the smile, he decided that it’s best to let Art have it. Red returns to Art’s face. Then his smile follows. It's weak and shaking, but it's a start. Paul returns the smile; this time, it _is_ for Art. He pats Art on the cheek gently and nods. They both do.

They hear the host calls them by their fake names. Art stands up, towering by Paul’s side, and they march; slightly shaking but as bold as they could be. Art, bewildered, doesn’t really remember how he wound up on the stage without falling, but he remembers Paul’s hand’s gripping his arm, the other gripping his guitar. It’s probably Paul who guided him to the side of real-life Dick Clark, and it’s surely Paul who's been giving him a non-stop series of comforting pats, never mind his own nerves, when Dick offers the microphone to Art.

“I’m from Forest Hills, New York,” Art heard his own voice; it’s weird, it doesn't belong to him. Art never sounds like that. He immediately regrets the key he used for his speech, but the moment’s gone and Dick’s now asking where Paul’s from. Paul's so much cooler on stage. Is he not nervous? Nah, he's nervous. He's just not Art and his funky fears of everything. One of these days, he's gonna work on that. Jerry, where're you from, Jerry? It's really Paul, Dick-head.

“Macon, Georgia.”

Art blinks. It's then that he actually comes back to his body, regains his full conscience, and realises what’s really happening. He looks at Paul, who's eyeing him with mischief, then gives him a secret wink and a wild smirk, bouncing over Southern accent Art never knew he could do. Art purses his lips, suppressing a giant laughter. His fists tremble, one of them is still secure in Paul’s warning grip as he goes on introducing the band and the song in Southern accent. Swallowed by Paul’s humour, Art relaxes significantly. When their song plays and they begin to mime the lyrics, Art moves much more naturally than he expected himself would. Paul is there, after all, a little dynamite who just fooled the whole America with stories on lemonade in hot July. Art moves a little awkwardly at first, but there’s nothing scary about being in front of cameras; not with Paul around.

From the side, he eyes Paul’s movements. He’s no dancer, but he certainly moves so much better than Art. He knows the song—he wrote it, anyway—so he could feel the texture, could move the way the song wants him to, guided by the sound. Paul, in his unassuming way, finds a perfect footing here and there, on the stage, around the song. Everything he does is just… right. And from the way he steals glances at Art, he sure is feeling more secure with Artie on his side, too. Art gives him a smile, reassuring, and Paul returns the favour. They forgot Jerry Lewis. They forgot Dick Clark. They forgot the whole America. It’s just them on that stage; their two voices melting like fondue, warming, fulfilling.

It’s all over too soon. They’re rushed back to the dressing room, where they gasp and exhale and laugh and hug. Art doesn’t say a word about Paul’s guitar stabbing him on the shoulder; he doesn’t want to part yet. It’s worse than when they found out about the audition. Or when they found their song climbing up the pop chart. It’s insane. That performance, the way Paul owned the stage…

Art chuckles on Paul’s head. “Macon, Georgia, eh? You’ll say anything, won’t you?”

He feels Paul's whole body vibrating with laughter against his chest. “Not sure what yer talkin’ ‘bout there, sonny.”

Art laughs and lets go of Paul. It’s easier when they’re smiling. Art meets Paul’s eyes and they both go still, hands still touching each other’s arms. They part when Paul drops his guitar gently on the vanity with its lights still on, his eyes never leaving Art. Before Art could detach himself from the gaze, Paul had sunk himself in Art's embrace once more. Art isn’t sure what to make of it, until he feels warm vibration returning again to his chest. Art places a hand gently on Paul's back. “Paul, I can’t hear you.”

Paul moves his face sideways, still hugging Art. “I said, thank you.”

“Oh.” Art hesitantly pats on Paul’s back, then strokes him the way his father usually does—awkwardly, nervously, but kinda gratefully. He nods. “Yeah. Yeah. No, thank _you._ If you don’t pester me to go on, I’d never have done it.”

Paul smiles as he lets go of Art, looking down, his eyes sparkling from hostaged tears. “Yeah, maybe. Just… Doing this with you… It’s surreal, you know? I’ve thought about being under that spotlight with you since we were 8. How do you think I feel right now?”

Art chuckles softly. “I can make a guess.”

Paul is still looking down, as if looking for a missing button on Art’s suit. Finding none, he inhales deeply. When he speaks, his words trembled, filled with emotion. “I’ll take you to more spotlights, Artie. More cameras, more stages, more applauses, whatever you want. You and I, as long as we keep on singing…”

It cracks Artie. He feels tears swelling in his eyes and he has to put everything he’s got to keep it from melting. He grips Paul’s wrists and nods, stern and short, careful not to prolong the emotional moment.

“I will _always_ sing with you.”

Paul’s father breaks through the door then, and Paul turns on his heels, then runs to his father and gives him the biggest hug in his life. Art looks at them with a weird pang of jealousy, of disappointment, as if something was stolen from him. His father’s not here, that’s why, he thought. He forces a smile at Mr. Simon and nods politely, waiting for the father and son moment to blow over.

After an eternity, Mr. Simon pats Paul’s back and pushes his son’s shoulder gently. He announces their itinerary. The boys follow the driver’s instruction and gather their things, soaking in the last of their glory day in Philadelphia, where Art is Tom of New York’s Forest Hills who just sang with the mousy Jerry from Macon, Georgia.


	14. Where Art is Too Close for Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art can't help it.

Paul quit Kitty Kelly after the Bandstand. Quite obviously. He has no need for shoe stores anymore, definitely. They weren’t happy to let go of Paul “Lightning” Simon and his titular speed-of-light box-fetching, but the boy’s a rock and no one can get through him.

Artie, the sane one, maintains steady income. He also maintains steady good scores. Paul’s wobbly, but manages to stay afloat, somehow. Art had tried, _really,_ to keep the boy’s head on math, but Paul kept on adding extra dots and lines on radixes, making beamed quavers and coming up with “hey, this seems like a good melody” for them to sing. Art couldn’t really resist, could he? Not when Paul sounded like that.

But that's finals and that's well over now. Summer had revisited, and Art and Paul made some distance between them when they, again, attended separate summer camps. Art found solace, spending days being outside, walking. He didn't know what Paul was doing; this year, they didn't send each other letters. But it's just a summer camp. Art returned home sooner, not knowing Paul's itinerary but deciding to enjoy the quietness of his neighbourhood anyway.

On the brink of fall, Art finds Paul dashing across his backyard. Art had been sitting on a bench behind his house and Paul, being Paul, climbs the tree and jumps over the fences towards Artie’s bedroom window. Art calls him, putting the dash to a halt, and waves. “Back from camp?”

Paul shoots him a smile, stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks towards Artie. He seems, well, maybe not taller, but… healthy, maybe. Art’s being very diplomatic. Paul’s looking good. Whatever he’s been doing, with baseball or guitar or throwing items at people in the camp, it’s doing good things to his arms. Art can't seem to be growing any muscle. He looks like he's made of spaghetti. He might have to give up, eventually, one of these days.

Paul settles himself on the armrest, grinning. “Just dropped my bag 5 minutes ago.”

“How was camp?”

“Oh, horrible. You remember when in American Bandstand, I told Dick Clark that I was from Macon, Georgia? Yeah, yeah. So everyone in the camp saw that and so I had to speak in Southern accent throughout the whole program. It was hell. Do I speak normally now, or am I still in Southern accent?”

“You’re sounding as normal as you can be.”

Paul narrows his eyes at Art. “Why does that sound like a sarcasm?" Art shrugs noncommittally. Paul dismisses the question. "Anyway,” he said. Paul pats Art’s shoulder and squeezes. “It’s been a while.”

Art’s smile fades, so does Paul’s. They stare at each other, tensed, as if winter had come way too early and they’re sitting there with their tees, unprepared. Suddenly, Art doesn’t wanna be outside anymore. No, he _never_ wants to be outside. He’s an indoor person. He likes math. He likes… whatever, just not outside. He stands up and begins to make his way towards the door, but Paul barks at him.

“Artie, we need to talk about this!” Art freezes on the frame. Paul takes the opportunity to jump off the bench and take a hold of Art’s wrist. He waits patiently until Art finally gives in and looks up, in an odd way that Art always has to look up to see Paul, who’s inches shorter than he. Paul nods meaninglessly. They always do that; nodding for no reason. But they know the reason. They don't know the words for it, but they know the reason. The nod puts Art at ease and, noticing, Paul leads him into the house, carefully, as if guiding a horse.

“I don’t like this situation as much as you, Artie,” he begins, slowly, as they move to Art’s bedroom on the far side of the house. “But I think we have to move past this, one way or another. We did agree to postpone until the finals week, then you kept on running away until we had to leave for the camp… Artie, you can’t stall this forever.”

“Supposed I could try.”

“You’re not doing bad job either, considering we only live three blocks away. That’s quite some ninja skill you have.”

Reluctantly, a shadow of smile toys on Artie’s lips, though he tries to hide it from Paul. Paul notices, but decided not to call it out. He can’t spook Artie now. God, how he’d have made a good hunter in the olden days.

Paul closes the door behind him after the two of them managed the short climb in heavy silence that’s turned suffocating by the time the echo of turned lock faded.

“Listen, Paul, I’m…”

“Sorry. I know.”

Art clears his throat just so he has something to do with himself. “So, uh… Where do we pick up?”

Paul leans on the door, folds his arms, thinking. “I believe my last words were, ‘What the fuck, Artie.’”

***

It was the night of the American Bandstand. The Garfunkels, reasonably, had allowed a sleepover on Thanksgiving night, knowing that Artie would be way too pumped to rest on his own, and Paul was likely to make a break in because he, too, was too excited to be left alone. Since Paul’s room didn’t seem to fit for a celebration, Paul’s mother—bless her—had arranged the basement for the boys. She’d laid two mattresses and covered them with fresh sheets—the moss green was Paul’s, the blue was Artie’s, although it didn’t matter if the boys switched. Bedcovers were at the ready, heater’s turned on, table with plates and cups and water jug’s set—she’d promised them pizza upon return and had told Paul to remember to heat it up when they got back. She even placed a small basket filled with crisps and candies. Mr. Simon had placed the surprise gift for Paul, which was his own hi-fi, on the side of the bed, along with a number of records he’d carefully selected with Eddie. Eddie decided to give him gift of his absence. Eddie’s a blessed child.

Mr. Simon warned them not to stay up too late and to be too loud. “No… shrieking, okay? I’m looking at you, Art.”

Art laughed shyly. “No, Mr. Simon. Got it out of my system.”

“Good,” he said, before retreating to his own bedroom, leaving the two teens in the dim living room.

Art and Paul giggled their way to the kitchen, where the promised pizza was already waiting on the counter. Paul popped them in the oven while Art shuffled to find them two glasses. Art had taken out a bottle of orange soda out of the fridge for them to bring downstairs when Paul pointed at a small jar in the middle of the table. “Oh, look,” he said, reaching, “a kosher delight.”

Art laughed and plucked one rugelach, read the note cursorily to find the sweetest handwritten note that said, “For while you’re waiting for the pizza.”

“Your Mom’s going to Jewish heaven,” he joked.

They retreated to the basement, pizza and soda in hands. Paul locked the door to avoid Eddie’s unannounced interruptions, although it’s already way past his bed time and Eddie would know he's gonna get beaten up if he dared to interrupt. Paul was coming up with plan to cut school and have an extended Thanksgiving holiday. Surely the school wouldn’t mind, he argued. Art just chuckled and shook his head in fond disbelief.

The pizza was minced beef and mushroom and bell peppers and cheese and tomatoes. Art removed the bell peppers and secretly dumped them on Paul's pizza when he wasn't looking. It’s not much for celebration, but they’re 16 and they’re happy. Paul had found his father’s gift, and Art apparently received his own surprise in form of a small basket of Marshmallow Peeps. They built a makeshift tent from what dirty sheet they could find there in the basement, lit a lamp and told make-believe stories on their future American Bandstand bookings. Art laughed when Paul finished his last story and said, “You can’t do that.” Paul answered with cocky smile and a, “Watch me.”

Art and Paul changed into their pyjamas and decided it’s best to get rid of the hair gel before bed. They ran upstairs, still laughing, for some reason finding the decision quite funny. Or they’re just happy. At everything, about everything. Everything’s perfect. Life’s perfect. They’re at the peak of their lives!

Paul shushed Artie when he closed the door just a bit too loudly and went on their fits of stifled giggles. To save their pyjamas, they took off their top and hung it on the hooks. Paul ran the water, waited until it warmed. He sprayed the shower on his palm. Art was a bit alarmed because he’d have nothing to wear if Paul decided to spray him, but Paul’s a bit kinder tonight. No, instead, he asked Art to put his head down. “It’s easier to not get our necks all wet. You do me after this,” he said. Art agreed at the sensibility and bent his neck over the tub. The water was the perfect temperature, just warm enough to wash off hair products. Paul was careful not to wet anything beyond the end of Art’s hairlines. His fingers kneaded on Art’s hair, untangling, remaking the dandelion head he occasionally laughed at.

“Your fingers,” Art mumbled to the side of the tub.

“Hmm?” Paul was focused.

“They’re so calloused.”

“Yeah, well.”

Art tilted his head a little, bored of seeing the running water on white tub. He met Paul’s face as he tried to keep up with Artie’s sudden movement. Paul had this certain way of slightly puckering his lips when he’s focused. It usually occurred when he played the guitar, but lately it’s been present in other focused occasions as well. Art first noticed when they were doing history essay where Art’s given up but Paul still tried hard. He hummed a random melody; probably that’s how the pucker came—a reminiscent of music. Art tried to recall the music. It’s difficult, but it’s coming back.

Paul’s eyes moved to Artie’s face. “That’s nice.”

Art looked at Paul dreamily. “That’s yours.” The trickling water made it perfect. The echo in the bathroom made it perfect. Paul’s smile made it perfect.

“Is it?” he asked, his eyes were now trained on Art’s head again.

“Yeah. You hummed it once. I was trying to remember. I think I got it right. Hey, are you shampooing me?”

“Yeah, why not? Your head’s already wet anyway. Shut up and stop moving. I’m using good products here. Dad’s gonna freak a bit if he knows I’m using it on you. Not like he’s gonna realise. Anyway, stop-moving-Artie.” Paul had pushed Art’s head downwards so he had nowhere to go but the bottom of tub. When Paul’s done applying the shampoo, he tilted Art’s face so he wouldn’t get soaked, and began to run the shower again.

Paul told Art to stay still. He stood up and grabbed a towel, placing it over Art’s head, rubbing his head to get rid of dripping water, before releasing. “Now do me.”

Art did as told. He got cold, though, sitting topless in the bathroom, so he put his pyjama back on and placed a large towel on Paul’s back. Paul smiled a little. “Thanks,” he said. Art ran the water over Paul’s sticky head.

“How do you think the song should go on after that?” asked Paul, killing the silence.

“I don’t know, Paul. You’re the composer.”

“Hmm.” Paul pressed his lips together, thinking. He stayed very still that Art was briefly alarmed, but then broke into humming.

It made Art smile. “That’s beautiful.”

“I think so.”

Paul had instructed Artie to use his own shampoo instead of his father’s. Artie deserved the good shampoo after a job-well-done, he said, but Paul would settle for the ordinary shampoo. “Well, I think you did a great job, too, Paul,” argued Artie. Paul wouldn’t have it. So Artie took the blue bottle and tilted it. He raised an insulting eyebrow at the no-more-tears label and Paul grinned with a blush. Art laughed a little but proceeded without a word. From the way Paul looked so pensively, it seemed like he’s pondering upon the melody they just hummed. Art let him be, knowing they might wind up with another hit by the end of the evening.

“Artie?”

“Yes, Paul?”

“You know that song, Earth Angel?”

“Well-aware of it. You seemed like you might punch your Dad over whether or not it’s a stupid song.”

“It’s not a stupid song,” he scoffed begrudgingly. Paul smiled. “Don’t you think that song’s _so_ you?”

Art laughed, his eyes narrowed and his head fell forwards, almost knocking on Paul’s forehead. “Why, that’s true. I _am_ disturbingly angelic, aren’t I?”

“You’re disturbing.”

“Be respectful when talking to angels.”

Paul laughed. Art had begun to run the shower again by this time, and it put Paul to a pause, still grinning. His smile got softer and he said, “I think you should’ve been the one singing it,” but didn’t continue until Art’s done with the shower. He took the towel off Paul’s shoulder and dried him with it, going playfully violent with the rubbing of the hair. They both laughed. Paul got quiet unexpectedly soon, as if someone unplugged him and the laughter just drained away from his mouth. From behind the towel and Art’s rubbing hands, came Paul’s mumbled voice, “I think you should’ve been the one singing every song in the world.”

Art paused. He paused for a very long time, stunned by the sincerity of Paul’s words, the sense of eerie desperation and awe in his tone. This wasn’t really Paul that he knew. This wasn’t the Paul who just faked Southern accent and claimed Georgia his hometown. This was… Paul.

Paul sneezed. It’s chilly. Art pulled the towel…

… and kissed Paul. Art kissed him. It’s meeting Jerry Lee Lewis, Nat King Cole, Sinatra, Chet Baker and all his music heroes rolled into one. Paul’s pizza and orange soda and sugary rugelach packed in one oddly delicious wrap. How could they be chasing after stages and American Bandstands if something so much better had been in front of them all along? Why was it that they’d never done this before?

Paul pushed. That’s why.

Before Art could speak, Paul had sprinted through the door, stomping on wooden floor with unbelievable speed. Art, somehow managed to unhook Paul’s pyjama top, ran after him, slightly lagged from not being aware of the little dents of the Simon’s household. But, taking benefit of his long legs, Art managed to make the basement door not very long after Paul slipped into their tent. Had he not been that freaked, Art knew Paul would've locked the door, leaving Art stranded. But Paul was. Paul was scared out of his mind, he couldn't access its function anymore.

As he watched the fluttering yellow blanket, hanging over an old laundry twine, Art realised the gravity of the situation. No, it’s not their usual banter. This wasn’t partnership that they’d agreed on. And anyway, anything imaginary was always imagined by Paul, not Art. He’s the one who knew how to make things happen, not Art. He’s the one who did insane, impulsive things, not Art. Never Art. Definitely _not_ Art.

_Don’t freak out now._

Art tried to compose himself. Which was difficult. But he snuck into the tent on his knees and offered the blue pyjama top to the cowering boy at the edge of the tent. His eyes glared at Artie, like a cornered wild racoon. “You’ll catch cold,” Art coaxed. Reluctantly, with trembling arm, Paul accepted the covering. Art cleared his throat three times, or three hundred times, whichever sounded truer. “Paul…” he began.

But he never finished because Paul had started to yell, “WHAT THE FUCK, ARTIE?!” Then lowered his voice to a hiss of, “ _what the_ actual _fuck?_ ”

“I’m…” Now it’s Art’s turn to tremble. He trembled so violently that the tent shook with him, then collapsed over the two boys. Paul broke out of the dusty pile and dumped the whole thing aggressively to the dusty corner, grumbling. He turned his back on Art and put his pyjama back on. Art opened his mouth—how could a mouth be _that_ dry?—and his words came out like sandpaper strokes, “I’m sorry.”

“I need to sleep.” Paul didn’t look back. He tucked himself quickly and turned off the lamp, pizza box still on top of his bed.

“Paul, I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck, Artie?”

Then words got swallowed by the night.


	15. Where Paul Told Art What He Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Art are preparing to part.

Paul didn’t say much in the morning. Art woke up much earlier, having slept only to be tortured by dreams of Paul breaking Art’s favourite records in two and heating them in an oven. When the timer went off, Art’s records became rugelach and Paul ate the whole thing with pizza-flavoured soda. Art vomited no-more-tear shampoo and cried. When Paul spoke, music from the broken records came out of his mouth, but all the words were "no more tear, no more tear". Art woke up with tears in his eyes.

“I’m going to school after all, I guess.”

Paul stood up lazily, shoving pizza box away from his bed. He looked at the stash of candies his mother prepared him and looked round. Everything in this basement had been laid for a celebration. How did it get from that to _that_? The last two pizzas that they'd been saving to eat for before the bed were now stone cold. The soda, half full in the bottle, was flattened. Art hadn't touched his Marshmallow Peeps and Paul sure wouldn't get any now. Gone was their plan to get sugar high.

No matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

“Paul,” Art tried.

“Think about the amount of people admiring us in the corridor.”

Art had opened his mouth to get Paul into conversation they desperately needed to have, but Paul quickly shook his head. “Listen, I don’t… I’m not ready to talk about this. I think… I think you owe me at least that.”

Art hesitated, but nodded stiffly. “That’s fair. That’s… better than I’d hoped.”

Paul looked at him. “Oh,” he managed. “What were you hoping?”

Art’s eyebrows shot up in hopeful way. Paul's still speaking to him, at least. This didn't have to happen. Nothing needed to happen. They could still be Paul and Art, doing nothing but singing and playing catch and doing homework and more singing, plotting to get famous and everything boys do together. Last night didn't have to happen. Last night didn't exist. It stopped at Jerry Lewis, that's all there was.

Art shrugged, trying to lighten up the mood with a joke. “Nothing, just… I don’t know. You, pressing pillow over my face when I was asleep, or something along that line.”

Paul snorted and made a small arc with his lips, looking down. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Well, I’m not the murdering type.”

“No?”

“Nah, that’s too fast. I’m a meticulously-planned long-running revenge sort.”

Art smiled. Paul’s faded. He tilted his head, his face tensed, probably measuring Art. “You know, I think we have to just… I don’t know, forget it, for a while.”

“Sure, sure.” Art nodded quickly, like dog on a dashboard.

“But we’ll talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Later, maybe. Like, after exams, or something. I don’t know. I need you to teach me the, uh, everything.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah.”

“Are we, uh… still practising?”

Paul looked at Art, his gaze penetrating, empty, cold. The three words that followed was the worst thing Paul could ever come up with: “I don’t know.”

***

That happened surprisingly a long time ago. What was that, about last fall? It was after Artie’s birthday. Yeah, the end of last November. And this is… what? August already? Turning to September? God, Art can really avoid people when he means it. He remembers now, how he’d change his tracks whenever Paul emerged on the other end of the street or school corridor. He’s incredibly swift, and it’s surprising how unnoticeable Art can get. He'd bribed his brothers to tell Paul that he's not home, or get them to sit in his bedroom when his mother made him see Paul. He’d only hang around Paul when they’re surrounded by people, and would excuse himself early and out of Paul’s earshot. What a good deer Art would’ve made.

“Well…”

Paul leaves the door and finds himself a seat, eventually stealing the only chair in Art’s bedroom, leaving Art to fend himself from the lower position of his bed. “Well, Artie, I had the last words, so now it’s your turn.”

“I’m sorry.”

Paul shakes his head. “Not that one. Try again.”

Art collects his fingers and presses them together, as if making a prayer. He stammers, “I don’t know what to say, Paul. I just… don’t.”

Paul twirls on the chair a couple of times before stopping, marked with a sharp tap on the floor. He nods at nothing—again with the nodding—probably he's hearing voices in his head—Art wouldn’t be surprised if that’s true. Paul chews on his thumb’s nail a little. “Yeah, I wasn’t quite expecting you to come up with anything other than that, anyway.”

He lowers his hand and looks at Art intensely. “Artie, just… What was that, though? Listen, I’m not gonna be judgy or mad or anything like that, I just wanna know. Like, are you… Do you… you know, like… in general? Like, if you say that it’s because I just happened to be there, I’ll get it. I mean, it _was_ an intense night. So…”

It took Art sometime to understand the question, but he finally shakes his head. “No, it’s not like that. It’s not… just because _you’_ re there. I don’t… I don’t like guys.” Art’s voice refuses to go on, so he simply gawks there like fish out of the water.

Paul sucks on his lips, soaking in the remarks. He shifts uneasily. “So, uh,”—oh, no—“do you”—here it comes—“like me?”

Art squeezes his eyes shut and doubles over himself, doing whatever he can to disappear. Before he realises, he’s sobbing, covering himself in coat of arms, rocking like a baby. He can hear Paul cursing under his breath and leaves the chair, cutting their distance, getting closer. Art wants to tell him not to, but he breaks into violent sobs which got downright brutal when Paul puts his arms around Art, making cooing noises whilst rubbing on his back or patting his head gently. Art wants to say that he doesn’t deserve it, or that he can’t handle it. He wishes Paul would just kick him in the guts and be over with it. Invoke the sushi knife clause; this time, Art wouldn’t mind. Anything but this treatment.

He thinks of the last time Paul asked him that very question. Under the table, with a plate stained with buttercream from Paul's birthday cake, Eddie's feet steady nearby; Paul asked Art the same question. _Artie, do you like me?_ Yes. Yes, I do like you. But it’s not like Art likes _likes_ Paul. He doesn’t, does he? How could he? No, definitely not. Art has his whole future foreseen. College, job, wife, house, kids, car; in that order, most probably. But that's specified—wife. Wife, not Paul.

“Artie,” Paul’s voice is persuasive, like the sound his mother makes. Doesn't he know that it would just make him cry even more? Paul strokes his shoulder—Paul should stop that. He mutters, “Artie, I don’t know what that means.” _Exactly_ what his mother would say.

Art tries to subside his sobs. It takes good five minutes to get that right. “Neither do I,” was the only thing he managed to get out.

Paul waits a little more while until Art’s all dried down. He stands up to pick up a box of tissue and hands it over to Art, who requires about half the whole box to wipe everything. It’s then that Paul kneels on the floor in front of Art, places his hand on Art’s bent knee and says, very, very softly, “Art, I still want you.” He pauses. Menacingly.

“But I’m not sure I can do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split this work in two because it runs pretty long. Please find them among my works <3


End file.
